For me the word “round” has connotations of a circle of friends that tell in order how they are doing and what happened to them this week. Now this lovely word has become part of the military jargon.
On one level, the use of this word is kind of blurring the violence and horror of war. And on the other hand, the truth is revealed through him, the lack of scope in this violence, that keeps spinning us round and round.
Three sunrises ago I left on a solitary journey across Hollyridge Trail, hauling a heavy load of a million thoughts, all of them racing to find some reason.
Moving my feet across ancient clay soil, I discovered red, gray, and black rock formations changing shades to revere the every movement of the sun high above us.
My eyes saw in the language of Picasso, because although his soul was Spanish, his lasting inspiration was color.
My eyes absorbed the rich color of the landscape in the language of Langston Hughes, because his poetic verses freed color from bondage.
My thoughts spoke in the language of Gertrude Stein, because my mind like her language was for a time free from patriarchy.
My dreams spoke in the surrealist imagination of Salvador Dali, because the lines between life and dream, reality and imagination had disappeared.
The mountains delivered me with a single thought, life is as irrational as it is beautiful to love.